


Pharaoh and Physician

by goldenteaset



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Dark Comedy, Food Porn, Gen, Historical References, Medical Procedures, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: Camelot spoilers.When a pharaoh needs his head examined, so to speak, he gets the best man for the job. And if said man is part of the problem...well, then it's a matter of repayment.





	Pharaoh and Physician

**Author's Note:**

> \0/ At last, I have a Sanson-centric fic to post! This fic has actually been in my Drafts for an age, I just only now got around to finalizing it. (And I needed a brief break from A Demanding Heart. ^^;)  
> Anyway, Ozymandias in Camelot was both a laugh riot and genuinely awesome, so you could call this a (dark) buddy comedy. XD
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own FGO.

 

“You there,” Ozymandias calls across the throne room. “Physician. Stay a moment; I have need of you.”

 _‘Physician’?_ Charles-Henri Sanson turns on instinct.

The Construction King’s throne room is scorched in places from their scuffle. Despite the damage, it still gleams with brilliant architecture to rival even the French aristocracy’s excesses. Sanson’s Master is being led to a dining area, having won this Pharaoh’s mercy.  

And now...somehow...Sanson and Ozymandias are the only ones here. _Why?_

“My apologies. I’m—”

“Yes, yes, I am well aware of your Class and status.” Ozymandias waves a hand imperiously, as if to shoo such things away. “I name you ‘Physician’ because I witnessed you healing your allies during our battle.” His lips curl into a sly grin. “And yet, you have the honor of beheading the Sun King himself! To have brought low the mightiest of Pharaohs…that, too, is worthy of my attention.”

 _…Ah. And here is the first test._ Sanson bows deep at the waist, hoping to buy time. _If I act humble, that will be an insult. If I act prideful, that will be an even graver insult. So, the answer is…_

“…Thank you,” he says, still bowing.

The sound of approaching footsteps resounds throughout the room—and soon swallowed by Ozymandias’ laughter. “Raise your head, Physician. I shall permit it!”

Sanson straightens to his full height; up close Ozymandias isn’t that much taller than him. (Mozart and Marie would appreciate the jewel-studded clasp of his cape.) “Pardon my presumption…King of Kings, do you require my medical knowledge?”

He may be his Master’s Assassin, but he won’t turn down an injured person in need.

Ozymandias closes his eyes—weighing Sanson’s words—and nods. “Yes, I do indeed.” He jabs Sanson’s chest with a finger. It’s unnaturally warm, almost burning hot. “I shall inform you now: this is _not_ your doing! Your death-contraption may have dealt the final blow during our battle, but my dilemma comes from a higher source. Do you understand, Physician?”

 _A “higher source”…the Lion King, perhaps? Or someone else?_ Either way, it’s a troubling thought.

“Quite so, King of Kings.” Sanson gives him an assessing glance. “Now then, where is your injury?”

“Ah, yes, you were not here earlier.” Ozymandias’ eyes flick about, as if ensuring no one is watching. When he sees nothing, he relaxes again. “…Very well. Observe!”

And with a tilt, his head sloughs off his neck and into his waiting hand.

The most awkward silence of Sanson’s life follows suit. _Where should I look; the neck or the head?_ _No, it must be the latter. _Good heavens, no wonder La Mort Espoir worked so well! This temple must be keeping him alive…a masterpiece of magic and architecture, without a doubt.__

“Oh dear,” Sanson says with outward calm befitting his profession. 

It’s rather unnerving, watching a headless man attempt to nod.

Still, Sanson has seen his share of severed heads. “May I have a look, Pharaoh?”

“Yes,” the aforementioned head replies with slight impatience, “else why would I pull you aside?”

Sanson gasps. “You can speak? _How?_ Oxygen needs to travel through—”

“—You will inspect me. _At once._ ” Ozymandias’ command sears through him like the sun’s rays.

Permission granted. And it mustn’t be denied.

First, Sanson examines the neck from all angles. The…cut…is cleaner than even the guillotine's. No blood clots ring the flesh. There are no signs of tear either. Rather, it’s as if Ozymandias’ head and neck simply “ceased to connect”. _Strange and stranger still…_

When Sanson finishes circling around him, Ozymandias plops his head back in place with a skin-crawling _squish._ “As you can see, it is healing adequately…but too slow for my liking.”

“How so?” Sanson looks around the temple. “With a fortress such as this, you needn’t fear attack—”

“—True, yet incorrect!” Ozymandias folds his arms across his chest, his lips hardening into a thin line. “My people are frightened. To witness the beloved Pharaoh’s head fall from his person as if from a leper’s flesh…babes weep at the sight. And their mothers as well! Even battle-hardened soldiers avert their eyes from me.” His fingers curl into fists. This is the Pharaoh’s rage, trembling through him like an earthquake. “I refuse to witness that terror in their eyes again!”

Sanson’s chest aches. They may be separated by centuries; their methods and circumstances differ. He may as well compare the sun and a single star. And yet—somehow—Ozymandias’ frustrations remind him of Marie.

“In other words,” he says, remaining professional, “you need stitches.”

Ozymandias grins. “Precisely! My head requires security, until the healing is complete. So, Physician: can you do this?”

“It may be a bit rushed, but it will be as fine a job as any. I have one request.”

“I shall allow it. Speak!” Ozymandias’ voice rolls through the room like thunder. “Do you require gold? Feasts? A tour of my lands? A beautiful companion for the night?”

“Oh, nothing that extravagant.” Sanson allows himself a crooked smile. “However, it may be a trial for you. In short: you must not speak while I work. That would ruin my concentration.”

Ozymandias’ eyebrows rise in shock. Just when they seem about to breach his scalp, they snap back down to their usual place.

Visions of pyramids crushing his Master and all her companions fill Sanson’s head. Nothing for it: he backtracks. “Forgive me, that was impudent. That is, perhaps you could write—”

“—Oh, no,” Ozymandias purrs with a wicked grin. He claps Sanson on the arm, deftly avoiding his bladed epaulets. “No, I would rather learn of _you,_ Physician from another land and time.”

 _…Oh._ “Then I shall wash my hands at once.”

\---

In a show of goodwill, Ozymandias brings Sanson to a small room opposite the dining hall. It’s a sitting room of some kind. Shards of sunlight flow in from the windows above, lingering on the gleaming white floor. A table and two chairs have been prepared as well: tiny fragments of sapphires have been woven inside the ornately carved wood, like lidless eyes. It’s surprisingly cool in here—no doubt an Egyptian specialty.

“Place your tools there,” Ozymandias gestures to the table, “and we can begin.”

Nodding, Sanson brings forth his medical bag from his coat. As soon as it breaches his pocket, the bag swells out to the medium size befitting its job. The leather squeaks as he sets it down.

“Oh-ho!” Ozymandias regards the bag with curious eyes. “What an eccentric creation. It must be that woman with the staff’s work.”

“Yes.” Sanson chuckles wryly. “Early on, Da Vinci said to me ‘A man of medicine needs the best tools for the job, and I’m the best inventor for the job’. My work feels more… _professional_ this way. I’ll thank her again later.”

In the dining hall there’s talk of daily life in Chaldea versus Egypt. It seems to be going well.

Ozymandias, in contrast to his status, pulls out a chair and takes a seat. His smile twists with cynicism. “And to think, I never saw you use it in combat.”

“I did,” Sanson insists patiently. He unsnaps the bronze clasps on his bag, retrieving antiseptic, washcloths, needle and thread. “Kintoki and Fuuma claimed your attention.”

“Humph. That they did.”

Sanson circles around the table to Ozymandias’ side, tools in hand. “Are you comfortable, Pharaoh?”

“…Well enough.” Ozymandias straightens his back, adjusting his head with a hand. “I shall permit you to touch my body,” he proclaims. “Now, begin the procedure at once!”

The dining hall goes quiet. Of course such a suggestive remark prompts curiosity.

“Then be still.” Sanson keeps his voice soothing, neutral. “And silent. I don’t wish to miss.”

For all the grumbling, Ozymandias does keep his end of the bargain.

Now Sanson must keep his.

“Hold your head in place a moment—like that, thank you.” He unscrews the white bottle cap; the Chaldea logo brings a fond smile to his face. “I’m going to apply antiseptic now. A word of warning: it smells rather foul. It’s a modern invention, meant to shield the body from disease.”

(He decides not to mention that an average patient would be quite dead long before this point. _A Pharaoh is not an “average patient”; this one is even less so._ )

“I may have mentioned this before,” he says, pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a washcloth. The acrid smell stings his nose. “Your wound is the cleanest cut I have ever seen. Perhaps this is what jealousy is like?”

Ozymandias remains still, but curiosity comes off him in waves regardless.

Sanson sighs from deep in his chest, wiping the cloth along the perfect circular cut. It’s hot as the rest of the pharaoh's flesh. “I suppose I should admit it: in life, I was an executioner. I didn’t wish to be—my real love was medicine. But…there were familial obligations to be met.”

It’s difficult to speak of such things. Not that conversation is easy for him to begin with. His profession and status rarely permitted such luxury. _But to the pharaoh, this is simple give-and-take…_

He runs the bitter-smelling cloth in a few more passes. As he does so, he speaks of Paris. He tells of how his family lived in the outskirts, far from polite society yet occupying a “royal” position; the ephemeral dream-like parties of the rich; the pathetic excuses for hospitals, clogged with the dying poor; how he provided medical assistance free of charge to those same impoverished souls, whether he could save them or not.

“If nothing else,” he says with a bitter chuckle, “I learned how to deliver a quick death.”

An amused huff of breath escapes Ozymandias’ throat.

Of course, as Sanson begins the stitching proper, his mind turns to Marie. “In truth, I have been blessed,” he murmurs, “For I had a Queen worthy of my service. Our parting was…bitter, even cruel. But now”—his heart swells with warm light—“now I have two employers that I trust.”

A row of stitches flow across the pharaoh’s neck, their presence easily hidden behind his high collar. Sanson needs to make this quick and precise. A royal’s patience is a slippery thing, fragile as old bones.

Tying off the last stitch with nimble fingers, he quickly moves on to the gauze. Thanks to the Throne of Heroes, he knows something of Ancient Egypt. _I must be cautious—he could get the wrong impression. Or not. Heaven knows at this point._

“Please lift your head a bit, Your Majesty,” he says, unwinding a roll of gauze. “Thank you.”

As if to confirm his worries, Ozymandias gives a slight shiver when the gauze first touches his skin. However, he doesn’t lash out. That’s a pleasant surprise—but that luck may not continue.

Distraction is the best option. “If I may say so, Your Majesty, I feel you would like Chaldea. It’s not all ever-present danger—sometimes we manage to enjoy ourselves.”

That catches Ozymandias’ attention. The mere hint of celebration makes his ears perk up.

“Let me see,” Sanson mutters to himself, winding the first layer of gauze about his patient’s neck. “There was Nero Fest, gladiatorial games held by the Emperor herself. Those were…rather taxing, in the beginning. And the Moon Festival—ah, you want to hear of that? Very well, Your Majesty.”

Of course, that also requires telling the story of when Marie dabbled in petty theft. _Ah, well. Now that time has passed, it’s an amusing enough tale._

“Naturally, a festival requires food, and that meant dumplings. Heaven knows how Chaldea’s staff acquired them. But they were delicious, chewy and sweet…and so Marie decided to keep some for herself.” Sanson winces. “She, shall we say, miscalculated. By about three tons.”

Ozymandias’ smile is almost audible.

Sanson decides to tactfully omit Marie’s “lesson” on weight-loss, instead explaining how they were discovered. Ozymandias keeps his word—and keeps his good-natured laughter at bay.

Soon after, the procedure is finished.

“There,” he says, stepping back. “These should fade within a day or two. Your healing period is almost done, so this is more cosmetic than medical.”

“Regardless, I appreciate your efforts.” Ozymandias rises from his seat, pulling his collar back in place. He grins over his shoulder at Sanson. “Go on, Physician, begin your nagging! The way you hold your tongue is clear as day.”

“Heh. Is that so? Very well.” Sanson straightens up, needle and thread still in hand. “You must not scratch at the stitches, nor pull, or do anything that might infect them. When bathing for the next two days, please keep your neck above the water at all times…”

This Pharoah still manages to be full of surprises. For a start, he calls for his secretary, Nitocris, to write all this down. Even with dictation he listens attentively to Sanson’s words, asking questions here and there.

In truth, it’s a bit unnerving. There comes a time when Sanson has to stare at a fixed point above his head, rather than at those piercing gold eyes. _It's as if they can see me, and yet_ beyond _me..._

“…That should be everything.” Sanson clears his parched throat. “Thank you for your patience, Pharaoh Ozymandias.”

Ozymandias chuckles and rests a hand on his hip. “And thank you for your service, Physician! Are you certain you need nothing more? There is food and drink to spare in these halls, should you wish it.”

Sanson is about to refuse again…and reconsiders. Something to drink _would_ be pleasant. “Thank you. Some wine, please.”

Ozymandias’ eyes glint with victory. “Very good, Physician. You know when to partake after all!”

\---

As expected, the wine is delicious. Fermented from dates, it has just enough alcohol to give a slight buzz, but not enough to incapacitate him.

“Try the beer,” Ozymandias suggests from the head of the table, handing him a small earthenware cup. “Oh, and these scallions mesh well with the flavor.”

Sanson inclines his head in thanks, takes a sip…and regrets it immediately. It seems pharaohs prefer their beer more _solid._ And bitter beyond all reckoning.

“How is it, Sanson?” his Master asks, leaning forward curiously. “Beer from Ancient Egypt is full of protein and stuff.”

“Indeed,” Ozymandias says, puffing up with pride. “It digests easily as well!”

 _…I must be polite._ Steeling himself, Sanson swallows and sets the cup back down on the huge stone dining table. “It’s”—he coughs behind his sleeve—“different from the beer in my time. A little like a protein shake from yours, Master.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Mash says, her shoulder brushing Master’s companionably. The feast stretching out before them doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest. “Senpai, you should try this roast oxen, it’s delicious!”

Sanson nibbles at a long scallion. _Hmm. It’s as Ozymandias said: it_ does _compliment the beer. Mild spice with strong bitterness…_ It’s hard to tell if everyone’s overeating, or if the long plates are creating that illusion.

The meal and time leisurely passes by. Soon, it’s time for Sanson to go back to Chaldea. (Which may be a good thing: his coat is growing unbearably stifling in this heat.)

“I was a pleasure to meet you,” he says to Ozymandias, as Mash powers on the Summoning Circle behind him. “Even if we had to battle each other first.”

Ozymandias laughs long and loud, and the stitches hold firm. “I can think of no better introduction! Perhaps I shall require your services another day, Physician.”

Sanson shrugs one shoulder and smiles. “I should hope so.”

Ozymandias snaps his fingers, as if recalling something. “Ah, and one last word before you depart.” He saunters forward, his expression oddly grave.

Sanson tilts his head to one side, baffled. “…Yes? What is it, Your Majesty?”

Wasting no time, Ozyandias leans forward and whispers in his ear: “Beware of summer!”

“…I beg your pardon?” _That’s hardly an answer. That doesn’t even—_

It’s too late to ask for clarification. The Summoning Circle flares to life, and Sanson has no choice but to step back into its blue glow and let it whisk him away. The last thing he sees of this Singularity is his Master waving an enthusiastic farewell, surrounded by allies old and new.

As it should be.

\---

Not long after, Sanson figures out _exactly_ what Ozymandias meant. And if they ever meet again, Monsieur de Paris will give the King of Kings a _very_ long lecture about predicting the future.

 _Especially_ if said prediction involves Marie and their Master being clad in scanty bathing suits, and dragging him and Mozart to an impromptu pizza party.

That isn’t to say either the food or company is bad. It helps that his Master doesn’t mind him eating with a knife and fork. According to EMIYA, this is a “deep dish” style pizza; something Dr. Roman suggested. Sanson must admit: the man has good taste. EMIYA’s cooking, as always, is excellent. The thick breading, rich tomato sauce, three complimentary cheeses and myriad of toppings melt in one’s mouth. 

“You see?” Marie says with a smile, leaning forward expectantly for his reaction. Her hair glows like silver in the overhead lights. “It’s delicious, isn’t it?”

Sanson is grateful for the thick, savory strands of cheese he needs to cut through. Otherwise he’d be blinded by the radiance before him. “Er, yes, I suppose so. I apologize for keeping you from this experience.”   

“Here, Sanson,” his Master says, scooping up and twirling a potent glob of melted cheese and pepperoni onto her fork. “Say ‘aah’!”

“Eh—” Apparently that’s close enough; the morsel-laden fork passes his lips easily.

As he takes a bite and savors the unexpected zest, Sanson tries his best not to notice his Master has yet to change into her normal attire. _So much exposed skin, such curves…I’ll never grow used to such a sight._ He focuses on other things, like how adorable Marie’s sundress is. Or how Master’s bikini matches her hair and eyes. _And how these outfits become them…no, no, not that!_

"It's torture, isn't it?" Mozart says cheerily at his side. He's taking advantage of Marie's kindness yet again, devouring forkful after forkful of her slice of pizza. 

Sanson jabs his elbow into the damned pervert's ribs, making him nearly choke. (It should have been more than "nearly", but alas.) "Oh, pardon me." He can't keep the annoyance from his voice; not that he wants to. "It was an accident."

Marie sighs, the picture of disappointment, and his heart sinks in his breast. 

He remains flustered by this sudden frivolity even after the party ends, though he does his best to hide his scorching red face. He’s sure that the bright lights of Chaldea’s cafeteria can’t hide a thing.

 _Yes, if I meet him again, Ozymandias will receive a_ thorough _lecture indeed…!_

(Although—if Sanson knows Ozymandias—this will only convince him of his sound judgment. He found a physician exactly when he needed one most, after all.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated. :D


End file.
